It was a living
by KDHeart
Summary: Between a kiss on the cheek and a 2am phone call, Julia had a lot to wait and a lot to think about. She wasn't good at either.


**AN:** I haven't written in ages (over a year, not counting the tiny ficletts I did for Amplificathon last year).  
So here's some late night thoughts featuring my favorite evil minion and one of my favorite villains.  
I have no idea how to tag this.  
Also, I'm not as good at subtle as the writers for s1.

* * *

Cool headed and cold hearted, that's how they described her. Also a liar, an opportunist and a victim in the same breath.

She was all of those things and none of them, depending on what she needed.

During the trial, she told them everything. She never lied, but she only told them the truths that would help her survive without him. After all, he was dead and his honor didn't need defending – not from the ones who painted him a villain to begin with.

She couldn't remember if she kissed him that day.

She was young. She was foolish. She was alone – so very alone – and he was there to hold her, to teach her, to shape her.

He was dead.

She needed to live and a life in prison was not living.

They sentenced her to ten years.

The press was quiet at the time. The few who did slip under the agency's radar (either by luck or were allowed) painted her a victim. A lonely, broken little girl, seduced by the dark brilliance of a mad scientist.

Rubbish.

But she kind of liked it.

Lies and slander, all of it.

He wasn't dark – he was a light in her darkness, a mentor and a lover, and his eyes still shone pale blue in her darkest dreams.

He wasn't mad – his choices were ruled by logic and _they_ had pushed him into every one he took. And when he broke away from their rules and excuses… when he wanted to use the power _they_ had given him and wield it against them… Of course there were going to be casualties – _they_ should have seen it coming, or let him go. People were going to get hurt, anyway.

But he was brilliant. She had never really understood more than half the things he was on about.

She wasn't weak. She wasn't a victim. She wasn't some starry-eyed innocent corrupted by darkness!

She had never been an innocent, starry-eyed or otherwise. She had given her heart and her loyalty freely – he hadn't accepted either until she had offered for a third time, like some sort of fairytale, and he had tested both in ways that were beneath him and she refused to remember.

Still, he was dead. So she played along, kept her head down, made herself look smaller, more fragile, more alone. Younger, even – she knew she didn't look all of 23 and she was sure some of the people who hadn't seen her file yet wondered if she was even 18.

A fleeting glance made her wonder if she didn't make even that bastard Bannon feel guilty about her situation. He claimed he had given him a chance, but would he avoid looking her in the eyes like that if he really had?

A kiss on the cheek. That was her last goodbye before she went off to foolishly distract the agents that were coming for him. She deserved more.

Between Jeremiah and the trial and the years in prison, not much remained of the Julia she had pretended to be for so long. Just a name – simple and common, but still one she would cling to. She made sure her papers said anything but that once she got out, though.

She soon got lost in the big, wide world. There were always people who needed someone with her various skills –the cold blood, especially, came in handy a lot. They didn't need to contact her, she knew how to find them.

It was a living.

Lorenzo was her only link to the past. He drifted in and out of her life on occasion - usually working for the same side. Once or twice, they ended up on opposite sides.

He could thank nostalgia for his life.

All in all, she made a comfortable living for herself.

She collected names. She had a couple of cheap apartments on either sides of the continent to use between jobs and a rather nice one under a name she never used that she rarely dared stay in for more than a few days at a time.

Ghosts from her past rarely came calling, unless it was a slow week and Lorenzo felt like coffee – he usually did that on his birthday and two days before or after hers, trying to make that encounter seem casual. She didn't really mind. He was the sort who didn't dwell on the past.

That was a lie, of course. If he didn't dwell, he had no reason to seek her out.

Coffee was nice.

The call came at 2am.

"Julia~" said the singsong voice of a man she thought dead for nearly twenty years.


End file.
